


Death Do Us Part; Or So We Hope

by Scibie



Category: South Park
Genre: Gang!AU, M/M, creek mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:02:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scibie/pseuds/Scibie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Kenny finds himself in the midst of an elaborate cheating scandal with the next gang over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a South Park/GTA V AU my friend and I are working on - South Santos.  
> Need to know info:  
> The Main Four - Stan, Kyle, Cartman, Kenny  
> Craig and Crew - Craig, Clyde, Tweek, Token

His backpack sat heavy on his shoulders as he ran through the icy streets, picking his way nimbly, breath frosty in the air. Kyle hadn't told him what the package today was - sometimes it was better not to know. Taking a sharp left, down an alley, Kenny stumbles a little, his footing no longer steady. The sudden decrease in speed allows him to see that this is definitely the wrong fucking alleyway. Probably because Craig is stood there with a switchblade and a huge grin on his face.   
"Seems like you got a package for me, McCormick."  
"Fuck off Craig." He murmurs, stepping back, ready to dart to safety.  
"You ain't going anywhere, dickhead." Comes a nasally voice from behind him. Clyde's here too, fuck.   
This is the right place though, the drop point. Had they known? Was this just a trap?  
Kenny hears the click of Clyde cocking his gun. Evidently that exit route is not an option unless he wants a cap in his skull. Kenny steps forward.   
Craig's grin grows a little wider.   
"Now Kenneth. I suggest you just hand over the package and take what beating we give you like a good little hick."   
Kenny smirks. "You might as well just shoot me asshole."   
Craig glances over to Clyde expectantly. "That's easily arranged."  
Kenny isn't sure whether it's the noise or the pain that hits him first, but he does know immediately that Clyde's shot him in the leg. It forces him down on one knee, but he refuses to bow his head, letting Craig see the grit of his teeth as he growls out a shout of pain. The nail studded bat in his hand is now a prop to keep him upright.   
"I promise you the next one will be even worse if you don't give me that fucking parcel McCormick." Craig hisses, prowling closer. "I've heard the rumours that you're a bit of a masochist though. That true? You gonna moan like a whore if I gut you like a pig?"   
McCormick spits at his feet. "I won't do anything for you."  
Craig kicks his bat away, forcing Kenny down onto the ground with the loss of his prop. The trampled snow bites at his exposed cheek.   
"You should learn to respect your superiors."  
"Fuck you."   
Craig kicks him hard in the side. Kenny refuses to make a sound, but has to bury his face in the dirty snow to hide the searing pain.   
"Are you angling to die tonight McCormick?"  
"Fuck you."   
Another kick in the ribs.  
Craig's snarl is obvious even to Kenny's ringing ears. A hand buries itself into his filthy matted hair (too many days on the job) and tugs him upright with surprising strength. At first Kenny assumes it's Clyde - he's the muscle of Craig and Crew. But he sees it's Craig, eyes flashing murder as he manhandles Kenny to the alley wall. When he lets go Kenny sags like he'll collapse again, so a firm hand wraps itself around McCormick's neck and pins him in place.  
Kenny feels like those butterflies in dusty zoological museums, held to poster board with pins through their bodies. He splutters against the sudden restriction of breath all the same. If he had had the mind to look, he'd notice Clyde has gone - the boy never had a stomach for true violence.   
It doesn't matter anyway, Kenny has bigger problems to worry about, namely Craig.   
"You think you're a tough guy McCormick?"   
Kenny merely glares at him, defiant sapphire meeting icy slate. It's not like he can talk with a hand wrapped hard around his throat.   
Craig still has the switch knife in his other hand, where he's almost nervously flicking it open and shut.   
Kenny is running out of air, spluttering slightly and kicking at Craig with all his might. Craig holds firm. Kenny's vision begins to blur around the edges. He's never died via suffocation before. He tries scratching at Craig's forearm but even when his nails tear flesh Craig's face does not even flicker.   
Just as Kenny thinks it's too late - as his vision darkens to black - Craig throws him back to the floor. The impact has Kenny drawing a gasping breath, the frozen ground waking him up immediately.   
He automatically tries to run but in his hurry he forgets about his leg. He goes down with a scream this time. Craig looks pleased.   
"Didn't think you had that kind of sound in you Kenny." He teases as the blond clutches his leg with cold and bloody fingers.   
"F-fuck you!" Kenny screeches at him, fear and agony making his voice shake.   
As fluidly agile as a panther Craig is there in mere moments, his switchblade digging itself a hole in Kenny's upper arm, the metal chilled and contrasting with the hot blood that begins to stream out of the wound. Kenny screams again, jolting away and only making the gash worse when the knife catches.   
Craig's eyes are full of bloodlust as he follows Kenny's desperate crawl to the alley wall, which he pushes himself up against with shuddering breaths. He's less a butterfly and more a wounded deer now, trying to find sanctum in its last few moments alive.   
That's when Craig squats down in front of him, all grace and power, pianist's fingers reaching out toward his prey.  
Kenny attempts to bite those fingers. He gets a firm slap that leaves his ears ringing and his head spinning for the trouble.   
The fingers lodge under his chin and hold it steady. Kenny is expecting the worse as he sees that switchblade in Craig's other hand, coming closer to his mouth at every passing second.   
But the worse doesn't come. Rather, the worse that Kenny was expecting doesn't come. A new, stranger kind of worse comes. Because it isn't a blade that is pressed to his lips, it's Craig's lips.   
And that is almost worse.  
Pushed up against the wall and held firm by both fear and unyielding fingers, Kenny can't pull away, hands scrambling in the snow for anything of use and finding nothing.  
Craig's lips are harsh and uncaring, his kissing style raw and vicious, unafraid to bite.   
When Kenny attempts to shove Craig away he gets a switchblade between his ribs for the trouble, the pain making him gasp.  
Of course Craig takes that opportunity.   
At some point the pain and unwanted pleasure blend into one, the twist of Craig's blade that still sits between his fourth and fifth ribs less gut-wrenching and more heart-wrenching.   
The world is spinning. Kenny is dying.   
Everything is addled and strange and wrong. Time stretched out infinitely and Kenny kisses back. Kenny kisses back.   
The world is grey and red and instinct kicks in and Kenny kisses back.   
The world is black when Craig is gone, and Kenny dies alone. 

Blood stains snow. Craig leaves Kenny and his parcel to rot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically this was meant to be a oneshot and now I can't stop writing this scenario out

When Kenny wakes, body fresh and head spinning, his immediate thoughts are 'what the _fuck_ just happened' followed by 'shit, the package'.  
Shoving himself out of old stained sheets and into the nearest clothes he can find, tying his trainers tight as he goes and launching himself out of his house.  
The wet slap of old trainers against snow-damp pavement echo through still dark streets, the rhythm familiar and helping to steel his nerves. How many times had he run these streets now? All his deliveries had blended into one. The alley isn't far - he gets there in record time.  
With caution he edges into the alley.  
It's empty. Craig and Crew are gone.  
He sees his dead body still slumped there, left where Craig had abandoned it. Once the sight of himself dead would have freaked him out, but now it was much better to find his corpse.  
Dragging himself behind a dumpster he notices his backpack is still in place. That strikes him as odd and as soon as he's hidden from view he checks what's left in his bag.  
Nothing is missing. Craig has taken nothing. The fuck.  
He shoulders his slightly damp, slightly bloody pack, looting his own body for everything of value. Craig really has taken nothing.  
But why? Craig had cornered him and demanded his package. And yet here it was, left with his dead body.  
Kenny sighs and closes his corpse's eyes, wondering what to do with it. Usually he just leaves himself be, but this body was particularly obvious.  
The dumpster would have to do. His old bodies tended to decay pretty fast once he reincarnated anyways.  
\--  
Later that day, once the package was delivered (late - he got shit on for that) and he had had time to clear his head, Kenny finds himself in the wrong side of town, wandering the streets that do not belong to him and his friends.  
There was no doubt Craig had seen him die. He was hoping that very fact would keep him alive in Craig and Crew territory long enough to find out what the fuck had happened. He was expecting certain death just being here so openly.  
Death hurt, but when you just got up the next day in a new body it wasn't that bad.  
Unsurprisingly it was a little over a quarter of an hour into his excursion that the sound of a gun cocking behind him has his attention.  
"What. T-the. Fuck. Are you... D-doing here?" Clyde's nasal voice demands to know.  
Kenny merely raises his hands to show he's not armed and happy to go quietly.  
Clyde paces up behind him and presses the butt of his revolver into the small of Kenny's back. "I asked you a question McCormick!" He growls, but Kenny can hear his voice shake.  
"I'm guessing Craig said he killed me?"  
"Well yea- I mean, answer my question, McCormick, this is Craig and Crew turf."  
"Don't you think it's weird Craig has you help corner me in an alley and yet he doesn't even take my delivery off me?" Kenny points out as casually as if he was making small talk.  
Clyde pauses, butt of his gun shaking against Kenny's back. "You _died_ McCormick. I saw your body."  
Kenny can't help the smirk that crosses his lips. "I know I _died_ dipshit. It fucking hurt."  
Clyde shakes his head in utter confusion. "I'm calling Craig. If you make a move I will put a bullet between your eyes, you got me?"  
"Crystal clear." 

The call between the two is done in hushed tones but Kenny can absolutely make out the way Clyde's voice is shaking and the way Craig is shouting at him down the phone. Clyde sounds about five seconds from breaking down into tears. He keeps saying: 'I'm sorry! I'm sorry! He shouldn't be but he _is_!'.  
The call finishes and Kenny knows Craig is just as perplexed as Clyde. What he doesn't expect is for Clyde to smash the gun into his temple, the snowy town fading to black as he falls to his knees.  
\--  
The headache is what he notices first when he comes to. Vaguely he can hear Clyde and Craig arguing in the background somewhere, words obscured by the ringing in his ears. Occasionally the argument is broken by the squawk of Tweek, but otherwise it goes on uninhibited. He can't see where the three of them are, and he can't move.  
"H-hey. Pussies." Kenny manages to spit out. The room falls silent. All he can hear now is that damned ringing in his ears.  
The soft mutter of Craig to the other two is a slight break in the quiet.  
"How are you alive?" Craig's voice demands to know. "I saw you die." Craig sounds genuinely scared. "I killed you."  
"I'm aware. It hurt."  
The blindfold is tugged off and all Kenny can make out is concrete and damp and Craig stood there, eyes focused on him with such offence that Kenny felt like he'd just been caught fucking Craig's mother rather than resurrected from the dead.  
"You know exactly what I'm getting at Kenny. How the fuck are you alive?"  
He should probably answer Craig's questions before he riles the man up more, but Kenny's never been one for logical decisions. "What's it to you?"  
Craig growls in anger, moving away and pacing back and forth, unwilling to touch Kenny lest this be some divine scheme to punish him for his sins.  
"Why are you here McCormick?" He finally questions.  
"Because your little dog Clyde dragged me here?"  
"Clyde found you wandering our territory, completely unarmed. You might be a hick, but you aren't stupid. You want to be here." Craig points out, striding up to Kenny again. "Now I'm asking you _why_ you want to be here."  
Kenny tests his restraints casually, taking his sweet time with his response. "Why would you go to the trouble of cornering me in an alleyway and killing me if you aren't going to take my delivery?" He finally replies.  
Craig's eyes widen almost unnoticeably, his head turning away before Kenny can see.  
"Shut up McCormick." Craig breathes out slow. "Shut up or I can make your 'stay' with us very uncomfortable."  
"I'm awa-" Kenny begins but Craig is there with a knife in his shoulder before he can even finish his sentence, which cuts out with a low cry of pain.  
"I said _shut up_." Craig snarls, twisting the blade cruelly. "Do you understand?"  
Kenny nods immediately, biting his lip to keep the words in. Warm blood trickles down his arm and in the back of his mind Kenny curses Craig for ruining his nice new body.  
Craig's cold eyes are burning with panic. Kenny's don't look dissimilar, wondering if coming here had been a bad idea.  
"You came to get answers." Craig realises under his breath.  
Kenny stops himself from answering. Craig glances down at him with a slight smirk, glad for his silence.  
"You aren't getting them and I'm not killing you." Craig announces, wiping the flat of his blade off on Kenny's cheek, leaving a bloody mark there.  
The metallic smell turns Kenny's stomach.  
Craig doesn't seem to care.  
"I want answers from you McCormick. How are you alive?"  
"I don't know." Kenny answers, honest for the most part.  
Craig doesn't seem to believe him, backhanding Kenny so hard it makes the blond's head snap to the side with the force.  
"Don't lie." He hisses.  
"Craig I-" Another harsh slap, Kenny whimpers quietly.  
Craig towers over him, backlit by the single bulb that hangs from the ceiling of the room. His eyes spell murder.  
"I don't know!" Kenny repeats, voice pleading. "Please I- I really don't know!"  
Craig's mouth is set in a hard line, expression stoney.  
"I-I die. I wake up in my b-bed alive. It's always... since I was small..." Kenny elaborates.  
"So you did die." Craig states, the question hypothetical in Kenny's mind.  
He nods anyway.  
"And you remember dying."  
Another nod.  
Craig turns away, running his clean hand through his black hair. Kenny hears a soft 'fuck'.  
"Describe your last death." Craig demands.  
"But you were ther-" Kenny trails off when he sees Craig's expression, dark and violent, thunder and death. "Uh. I mean. Okay. Clyde shot me in the leg... And then... You... Beat me up... And stabbed me..." Kenny wracks his memories, which are always fuzzier surrounding his own deaths. The realisation hits him with a jolt. "You made out with me... while I was dying..." He mumbles, glancing away. "But... You and Tw-"  
Craig's head snaps around. Kenny shuts up. He understands now why Craig is so panicked. Tweek can never know. The meth cook is emotionally stable as is. Craig would never get him back. Even Kenny knows how much Craig loves Tweek.  
"O-oh." Kenny whispers, the penny truly dropping.  
"You should have stayed dead Kenneth." Craig whispers. "Things are much easier when the pretty boys stay dead."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captivity with Craig is no laughing matter...

The silence in the damp concrete room leaves Kenny to stew in his own thoughts, unable to do anything but think. Tied up in a dark empty room, Kenny's mind wanders over the fact that Craig is serial killer and yet only he and perhaps Clyde know.   
They'd all known there was a serial killer out there. Kenny had assumed it was probably Cartman.   
It hadn't been Cartman's M.O but... Cartman was the type.   
The pieces all matched up now. Why every victim had been the same kind of person - young washed up youths, the pretty kind, the kind a predatory gay man like Craig would go for.   
Kenny was another victim. Except Kenny wasn't like the others - he didn't stay dead.  
When the door slams open, he doesn't look up, staring at his lap. "You killed them all." He murmurs.   
"That's right."   
"You hate Tweek that much?" Kenny growls.   
Craig is on him in a moment, bony fingers tight around his neck. "You don't say his name with your filthy little hick mouth." He snarls.   
"Or what Craig? You can't kill me. You kill me and your secret's out." His voice sounds weary in his ears.  
"I can do more than kill you Kenny." Craig murmurs.   
"This whole scheme just so you can cheat on Tweek, huh dude?" Kenny retaliates softly.   
"Shut the fuck up."   
"What is Tweek too spaz for you or something? Can't get your dick in his ass 'cause of the twitching?" Kenny continues, smirk growing on his face.   
Craig is shaking with anger. "McCormick, I'm fucking warning you."  
"Oh! I get it, it's the other way around! He can't get his dick in _your_ ass 'cause of the twitching!"   
Craig roars in fury as that familiar switchblade is out in moments and slams itself into the same shoulder as before, twisting in the wound before Craig drags it upward, the blade shearing through skin with the sheer force of Craig's angry might.   
Kenny screeches in pain, not expecting such a sudden and cruel turn of events.   
"You motherfucker! You take that shit back! You take it back right now!" Craig screams at him, the knife plunging down into Kenny's thigh this time, blade dug all the way in up to the handle.  
"Fuck! Fuck! Craig! Fuck!" Kenny whimpers out through gritted teeth. "Shit! I'm sorry I'm sorry!"   
Craig stills, blade still deep in Kenny's thigh. "Say that again."   
"I'm... sorry." Kenny gasps out.  
"Not that part."   
"Fuck, fuck, Craig, fuck?" He mumbles in confusion.   
Craig twists the blade harshly. "Say it again!"  
"Fuck!" The blond sobs this time, tears beginning to drip down his cheeks. "Fuck Craig! I'm sorry! Just stop!" He pleads, breath hitching as he does so.  
Two tired eyes raise to meet his. "You plead like a little bitch Kenny." Craig purrs, smirk on his face, the hand that was still wrapped around Kenny's neck now trailing up to his chin.   
"Please stop Craig." Kenny murmurs, his voice shaking slightly, tears still sliding down his cheeks untouched.  
Craig shushes him with some sick notion of care, brushing a few tears away with fingers still stained with blood. It leaves a bloody wet trail on Kenny's face, the mere feeling of which turns the blond's stomach.   
"I've never seen you cry before McCormick." Craig comments idly, watching the fat tears roll down Kenny's cheeks with calm interest.   
Kenny isn't even sure why he's crying. Isn't sure if it's pain. Isn't sure if it's the sick nature of who Craig actually is. Isn't sure if it's his own helplessness.   
But the tears are coming and they won't fucking stop, much to his chagrin. He doesn't even have some witty retort to counter the way Craig is watching him like a vulture, waiting for him to fall. Self-consciously he tries to wipe one cheek on his shoulder, only to see Craig's expression darken. 

He needs Craig to kill him. If Craig kills him he's out of this fucked up scenario. But Craig isn't like the others. Craig likes to _play_ with his food. Kenny isn't sure how much of Craig's sadism he can actually take, mentally. He knows exactly how much he can take physically. He's well acquainted with that limit. 

"Hey... Uh. Craig." Kenny mutters.  
"What's up?" Craig answers casually, as if this was just elementary school again, back when everything was simple and violence was never the answer.   
"...can I have a smoke? I uh... I heard you smoke now."   
Craig looks legitimately surprised by the request, his fingers already fumbling with the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. "Um. Sure." He mumbles, pulling out a cigarette.  
Kenny lets out a long breath. "Please don't stab me again... But... Uh... Why?" He asks, hanging his head humbly.   
Craig's doesn't look around when he answers, lighting a cigarette with practiced grace and taking a drag himself, gazing at the single lights source in the room. "Even if I wanted grace that question with answer, you know I would never tell you why." He points out cooly, holding the cigarette out for Kenny to take an awkward drag from.   
The smoke steels Kenny's nerves a little, makes him feel slightly more like he's back with Stan and Kyle, safe in their company. "You murdered all those people dude... You murdered me."   
Craig chuckles spitefully, shoulders shaking with the soft laugh. "I sure did. It would be much easier for us all if you'd stayed dead."   
Kenny huffs, expression bitter as he stares into an empty corner. "You don't know the half of it."   
Craig offers him the cigarette again and he takes the opportunity while he still can.   
"It seems like we're at a dead end here. I can't kill you or let you go. Not with what you know." Craig observes.  
"I'm guessing that even so you aren't gonna get me medical attention for my shoulder that you so kindly ripped open for me." Kenny deadpans.   
This causes Craig's eyes to drag over the seated blond in front of him, gaze resting on the still bleeding wound in question. His eyes then turn to the still burning cigarette.   
Kenny's eyes follow the progress, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest as his stomach drops. "H-hey now Craig... Uh... I-... That's not..."   
The sadist's lips are twisting into a sneer a mile wide.  
The tears that hadn't truly left spring back up without hesitation. "P-puh-please." Kenny begs shamelessly. "Dude n-not that."   
Craig doesn't seem interested in his begging.  
The screams ring through the concrete cell and rip through Kenny's lungs when already stinging wound meets smouldering cigarette butt, the pain almost incomprehensible. His body is thrashing the best it can on the heavy chair.   
When it's over (and thank god it's over quickly) thoughts aren't quick to return to the abused boy's frazzled mind, his body slumped forward and breathing ragged.  
Craig stands over him, all but unaffected. "You asked why. That's why. I could never... never do that to Tweek. Tweek is too fragile. Too perfect. Too beautiful. But you. You I can do that to. I can burn your white trash ass whenever I want, however I want, and you'll never leave."  
The tears are so thick that Kenny cannot even hope to see past them, the sobs so harsh that they scrape his lungs clean with each coughing gasp.   
"Fuck... fuck you..." He cries out when he has the breath. "Dirty... cheating... bastard..." 

Craig just shrugs away the insults, taking in the dark glare that Kenny's damp and exhausted eyes follow him with. The tears are silent and unceremonious, Kenny ignoring them the best he can. Craig checks the door with a quick sideways glance - Tweek should be busy in the lab right now but...   
Best to be certain.  
Kenny's breathing is ragged below him, the sound enticing. Something about a man close to his physical limits was truly alluring.   
Kenny isn't looking at him, eyes trained now on the floor with determination. Craig can just about see the way the blond’s lips curl in hatred, can feel the bitterness that radiates off him in waves. When he squats down in front of Kenny, pushes his chin up with fingers that shake just a little, he can absolutely drink in the utter despair in the boy’s eyes.   
When Kenny closes his eyes and tries to turn his face away, Craig strikes, swift as a cobra. His lips are on Kenny’s in the space of second and the whole world stops spinning as they collide.   
Again Craig is more than vicious, more than harsh - tooth and nail with the ferocity of a wild animal. This time Kenny fights back the best he can, though he isn’t sure if he’s fighting back or kissing back or both. At some point Kenny gets hold of Craig’s bottom lip and tugs hard, tasting blood. Craig counters by digging his fingers into the wound in the blond’s shoulder. The two battle between each other, Kenny giving as much as he’s taking despite his disadvantageous position.   
The room heats up, or so it seems, and the two are panting into each other’s faces. Craig’s bottom lip is ripped and bleeding, Kenny’s mouth filled with the tang of iron and his lips smeared with red. The smirk of triumph on Craig’s face is matched only by the grin on Kenny’s.   
“You got a little something on ya face.” Kenny comments, licking his lips to remove a little of the blood, ignoring the taste for now even though it turns his stomach.   
Using the back of his hand Craig wipes away the worst of it. “And you’re a little whore.” He purrs. “Who knew you could kiss like a slut?”  
Kenny growls. “Yeah? What about it? Wish Tweek was as good as me?” He teases, hoping that this time riling up Craig would end in his death.   
The ice in Craig’s eyes returns at the mention of Tweek. “I told you never to say his name with your stupid hick mouth.”   
Kenny’s grin spreads across his face languidly. “Craig?”  
“What?” Snaps his aggressor.   
“Tweek Tweak is a stupid, crazy spaz.” Kenny says with perfect diction, holding his head high.   
His head does not remain high for long. Not when Craig’s fist slams into it with full force, the impact snapping his head back to face the ceiling. Completely dazed, Kenny remains staring upward, attempting to assess the damage by feeling alone.   
Craig snorts at the way the fight leaves Kenny all at once. “Hey Kenneth.”  
“Wh-?”   
“You got something on ya face.”   
\--  
The next span of time (Kenny has no clue how long) passes by in a dreamy state. Kenny is never sure if he’s awake or passed out at any point in time. The little things become his reality. The itch of dried blood on his cheeks, the ever-present pain of his nose (he figures it’s broken), the tear trails that cleave through flaky brown-red blood, the dryness of his mouth, the ache of the duct tape that binds his hands to the chair. Those feelings - that room – his universe.   
Overall his universe is the dull throb of _pain_. It’s not even the kind of pain he feels he can deal with. It’s just a universal constant that keeps him lucid enough to notice but not enough to think. Whenever he tries to shift to try and make his reality just that little more comfortable his stab wounds protest. He clings onto the hope that every time Craig hurts him, he edges closer to death.   
But when you’re immortal, the line between life and death becomes an intimate acquaintance. Kenny knows how much punishment a human body can take. And it’s far more than he’s taken so far. 

His silent vigil is interrupted by someone opening the heavy metal door into the room, the steel scraping along the concrete and knocking Kenny out of his stupor. Blue eyes wearily check the door, expecting to see Craig.   
It’s Clyde, who purposefully doesn’t meet Kenny’s confused stare. “I uh… I’m here to… clean you up.” He murmurs.   
Kenny wakes up a little more. “Clyde.”  
“Please don’t talk to me.” The boy pleads, setting about his task.  
“Clyde dude.”  
“Stop.”  
“Clyde shoot me.”  
Clyde’s hands physically shake, his eyes immediately focusing elsewhere. Kenny can read the guilt. The deaths of dozens are written in his green eyes, which dart from side to side. Deep down Clyde’s a crybaby, McCormick remembers that from elementary school. His life now definitely seemed to be taxing for him.   
“Hey man. I know… I know we’re… enemies.” Kenny begins. Maybe his nose isn’t broken. It doesn’t sound like it. “But… uh…”   
Clyde moves away, sniffling. “Dude please stop. Craig’ll flip if he sees me crying…”   
“All you gotta do is…” Kenny swallows down the sick feeling in his stomach. “Just… feed me something deadly. Like bleach. C’mon dude. You can’t agree with what’s happening here.”   
Clyde’s wet eyes fix on him. “You’ll stop Craig?”   
“I mean I can try right?”   
“Please man. I can’t watch him kill someone again.” Clyde murmurs. “So uh, bleach?”  
The blond nods, steeling himself. Bleach was a hideous way to go but… so was slowly dying from whatever the sadist had planned for him. “Bleach. The industrial stuff. The stuff you use for the blood.” He elaborates.   
\--  
It _burns_. Already Kenny is gagging. Clyde is also gagging when he darts out of the room, but he’s not the one who just drank nearly half a gallon of bleach. Never in his life has Kenny been so acutely aware of where his digestive tract sits within himself. It literally takes Craig all of five minutes to sprint into the room.   
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you…” Craig catches the scent of bleach in the air. “Bleach?!” Kenny coughs wearily, trying to stay smug when everything in his reality is now fire and suffering.   
In the back of his head, the sound of the door locking registers. The feeling of Craig ripping off the duct tape. The floor against his cheek. Craig’s hands on his body. Kenny just wants to die. Holy fuck. He pleads to Jesus in his head.   
_Jesus. I know I haven’t been the best follower of the faith. But please. Please Jesus. Let me die._   
Perhaps it’s the amount of bleach that’s currently corroding him inside out, maybe it’s a miracle, but Kenny feels his soul loosening all the same.   
“Thank you Jesus…” Kenny gasps out with difficulty, his eyesight fading with the lasting image of absolute horror in Craig’s eyes.   
He’d won.


	4. Chapter 4

Dirt-smudged sheets had never seemed so welcome to Kenny before this moment. Yes, he’d returned to this very bed many times before and even so he’d thought he was used to reincarnating every so often in his bed. Except he wasn’t. Every single time was an absolute shock. Still a little weak, his mind wanders back to thoughts of burning bleach and passion-nipped lips and Craig’s icy glare.  
Kenny’s abode is no secret. He should bail before Craig comes looking. Karen is still where he left her - in the alley a little way into Craig and Crew’s territory. He hopes that asshole hasn’t touched his beloved motorcycle. Kidnapping him, kissing him, killing him – those all were things that Kenny considered forgivable. Harming Karen – his sister _or_ his motorcycle in this case – was a superb way to brand yourself as having a death wish.  
He has no money for a taxi. He spent his last paycheck from Stan on weed. He wasn’t exactly the most responsible man. If he was he wouldn’t have joined in with this gang warfare bullshit.  
But of all the things Kenny McCormick was not, he was at least one thing – quick on his feet. A run would only be agreeable for his newly re-incarnated body. Before that he checks his phone. He thanks god that he hadn’t been stupid enough to take his phone with him to Craig and Crew’s territory – Stan would have his balls for that. To no one’s surprise he was nearly thirty missed calls from Kyle and around 5 from Stan. There’s also one from Cartman, which actually is a shock – Cartman never called anyone. He only left texts.  
The number of messages he has is around double the number of missed calls. The date is the next thing he’s checking – it’s been around half a week. No wonder his gang mates are so worried about him. He should have checked in with them two days ago. They don’t know he can’t die. Not yet. He’s hoping the increased frequency of his deaths are going to change that one day. There’s no penalty for wishful thinking.  
He realises that he has no idea how long Craig had him locked up for compared to the amount of time he’s taken to resurrect this time around. It doesn’t matter. He needs to retrieve Karen and get to Stan as quickly as he can.  
It’s snowing when he opens the door with utmost care (the hinges are more rust than metal and Kenny can’t afford to fix them, not when all the money he makes goes towards keeping his family fed and watered and the rest goes to whatever his drug of choice is for that week), blue eyes scowling at the pregnant white sky. He hopes Karen has weathered the snow the best she can. He really doesn’t want to have to fix her up in the middle of enemy territory.  
The chill whistles through his hoodie, the snow leaving wet spots all over his hood and shoulders. It must be nice to have enough money to afford winter clothing each year. It’s been years since he’d grown out of his signature orange parka. The hoodie he’d bought as a replacement was pitiful compared to the old fur-lined hand-me-down that now lived in Karen’s closet.  
The slushy pavement is a hazard enough to McCormick’s shitty tennis shoes, ignoring the fact the snow was quickly going from a graceful white shower to a storm. It takes him twice as long to get to Karen as he’d estimated, only to find her covered with a tarpaulin. That has him clutching the crowbar he’d swiped from his dad’s garage on lieu of his regular baseball bat. The alleyway looked clear enough until he noticed the footprints leading further into the alley.  
Fuck. Fuck. He shouldn’t, he can’t follow those tracks. It’ll be Craig. It has to be Craig. He won’t- he’s not going to fall into that trap. He tugs the tarpaulin off Karen to check that she’s not damaged. An almost literal weight is lifted from his heart when she’s untouched. He pats her seat fondly. “You’re okay. Bastard didn’t touch you.” He murmurs, already clambering onto the familiar vehicle.  
The key.  
The key he left in the little lock box under the seat. Kenny vaults off the motorcycle and all but rips open the little compartment.  
“That little fucker.”  
The keys aren’t there. Of course they aren’t. Why the fuck would someone look after Karen like that without wanting something.  
The footprints lead around the corner and Kenny tracks them with all the motions of a hunter tracking his prey. The crowbar trembles between numb fingers as his breath dances with the snowflakes swirling in the air.  
Bright blue sweeps the scene around the corner. At first the tiny brick-wall alley seems empty – pristine even – the snow covering the grime and grit with a blanket of near-blinding white. But those footprints break the virgin snow, leading off to the side, where someone has evidently been chain-smoking cigarettes if the number of fairly fresh butts littering the alley floor has anything to say about it.  
“Eet’s a nice bike you ‘ave zere, mon frere.”  
Christophe. Better than Craig, to be sure, but still a nuisance. “Bon-fucking-jour, asshole.” Kenny huffs. “Can I have Karen’s keys back or are you looking for something?”  
The French man, who had been squatting behind a battered dumpster, emerges with his hands stuffed into his pockets, appearance as scruffy as normal. He’s improved his gear since their last escapade – full camo, what looks like a bullet-proof vest, grease-paint smeared over his cheeks haphazardly, at least one knife sheathed at his hip and what appears to be a concealed firearm in the waistband of his military fatigues.  
“Zere eez nothing I need from you, mon frere. I was simply keeping watch over ‘er for you.” Christophe comments casually, digging in one of his pockets and fishing out the keys. Kenny’s eyes follow the progress, though when he steps forward to collect the keys from the pretentious Frenchman, Christophe tuts disapprovingly. “I said zere was nothing I need. Zere eez something I _want_.”  
That’s enough to prompt a frustrated eye-roll from Kenny. “What Christophe? I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m not exactly meant to be around here.” He points to the white bandana around his neck, signifying his affiliation.  
Christophe shrugs. “And you see mine?” He deadpans, gesturing to his complete lack of gang colours. “I have no taste for ze sheet you bitches pull.”  
“What the fuck do you want?”  
The Frenchman kicks at the frozen ground idly with a steel-toed boot. “Why would Craig want me to keel you?”  
“The fuck?”  
“I was offered a fucking lot.”  
Kenny groans, stuffing his freezing hands in his pockets with frustration. “I don’t know dude! Maybe he’s trying to get ahead of us in drug sales?” He lies, not willing to let on to the mercenary that he knows more than he says.  
“Zat would make sense, oui.” Christophe shrugs, haphazardly throwing the keys over to Kenny. “Zat eez all. I ‘ave no wish to keel you. Au revoir.”  
Catching the keys in numb fingers (why the fuck didn’t he bring gloves?), Kenny is already sprinting back to Karen, the little question mark keychain he made when he was nine jingling with each stride. He all but vaults onto her seat and is off before anyone can even spot him.  
The cold melts away as the adrenaline runs through his veins, the way Karen screeches around corners with his reckless driving making his heart drop to his stomach in a way that never got old.  
Even when he breaks so sharply that her tires squeal in protest, Kenny’s heartbeat refuses to drop as he kicks open the door of Carl’s Warehouse. Cartman is first to react to his sudden entrance, the speed at which the anti-Semite cocks his gun and aims it at his face more than impressive. Stan is only a fraction slower at defending himself, but leagues faster than Cartman at recognising Kenny. Kyle, whose nose is deep in gang-related paperwork, doesn’t even raise an eyebrow – he trusts Stan’s growing paranoia and Cartman’s eager trigger finger.  
Kenny raises his hands in surrender, each frantic breath making his torso rise and fall noticeably. “Guys. Fuck. Chill.” He pants out, grinning that trademark gap-toothed grin that the other three know so well.  
“Fucking hell Kenny, where have you been?! It’s been nearly four days.” Stan is the first to calm down, resting back against his over-dramatic plush leather office chair (“It makes me look professional!” He had urged his less than enthusiastic gang mates). His hands tremble slightly as he rubs at his eyes, the insomnia evident in the dark purple shadows that usually lie hidden behind obnoxious mirrored aviators.  
Cartman goes back to sharpening a knife, seemingly disinterested in the drama for now. “Keeny was probably off tripping balls again.” He offers dismissively.  
“Fuck off Cartman.” Kenny mutters, even though Cartman is right – usually when he disappears its less to do with dying and more to do with the factor he is just a little too eager to ‘trip major balls’. “I wasn’t doing drugs again I swear guys. This time it honestly wasn’t my fault.”  
Kyle’s green eyes sweep up from the firearms catalogue he’s perusing and Kenny feels the Jew’s perceptive gaze on his cold-numb skin. “I mean, it’s true that Kenny never disappears for this long when it’s just to do drugs guys.”  
“Thank you Kyle.” Kenny sighs, steeling himself for the air of disbelief he believes will follow his next statement. “I was kidnapped by Craig.” 

 

Once Cartman stops laughing, Kenny is pleasantly surprised by the level of maturity shown by Kyle and Stan, who actually take him seriously for once. They don’t even ask if he’s high.  
“So you’re telling me all the people who’ve been dying ‘round here have been Craig?” Kyle checks, frantically googling for confirmation.  
“Yeah, he’s a fucking sadist dude. He’s been fucking all these guys then killing them to hide his cheating from Tweek.”  
The blond watches as Stan retches subtly at the new information, though Kenny knows that Stan’s seen far worse than a few dead bodies while they’ve been working the streets of South Park. He wonders why this information is what’s breaking the camel’s back compared to all the hideous things they’d encountered up to this point.  
There’s no retching or disgust from Kyle though. If people could have those metaphorical twinkles in their eyes, Kenny would say that Kyle had the mother of all twinkles in his eye.  
“We could take out Cn’C with this guys.” He mumbles. “Break up Tweek and Craig and it’ll all fall apart. Tweek’s their main source of income and the only thing that seems to be keeping Craig sane.”  
“I’m all for fucking Craig over, he’s a dick,” begins Cartman, who had managed to keep his mouth shut up until this point, “but if Keeny’s right and Craig is an honest-to-god serial killer, do we really want to be riling him up further?”  
It was ironic, really, that now his rival gang now knew he was essentially immortal but his actual gang still had no clue. Honestly Kenny wondered how he’d managed to fuck life over this badly. “I really don’t care what you do with the information guys. I delivered the parcel regardless. Do you need me for anything because if you don’t I am getting so high I forget I fucking exist.” He grumbles, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pockets. He doesn’t even need the drugs to replace the buzz of adrenaline from before, a cigarette would do, but he knows that Kyle disapproves of his less than savoury substance abuse. And Kenny likes to dance on the thin line that is Kyle’s temper.  
As predicted, Kyle waves him away before Stan can protest otherwise. Tongue poking at the familiar gap in his smile, he finds the swagger in his step a little more pronounced than usual as makes his way out.  
When the door swings shut and fresh biting air of a redneck mountain town hits him, Kenny feels just as alive as ever. Sometimes it seems the more you die, the better the simple pleasures of life seem. He’s always been one for the simple pleasures – his family has never had the cash for anything better. In some ways Kenny is glad for that. In other ways, he knows it’s no blessing to be poor because your pissant father wasted what little they had on alcohol and drugs.  
Drugs. Something Kenny has and is very much willing to use. When your immortality relies on you _dying_ on a regular basis, the embrace of narcotics can be one of the few things that help you forget how much shit you’ve gone through.  
_God,_ he thinks to himself once he’s home and rolling that long-awaited joint, _how the fuck did we all get into this mess?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cn'C are Craig and Crew  
> Next chapter is gonna be exposition-heavy guys, I apologise in advance.


	5. Chapter 5

_’We were young and drinking in the park; we had nowhere else to go.’_  
Bad Blood – Bastille

  
**A few years prior:**  
The echo of Cartman’s tinny offbrand speakers fill Kenny’s head, his classmates stumbling around in front of him, reminding him of wasps drunk off the fermenting windfallen apples from the scraggly apple tree at the edge of his parents’ rundown property. Even the thrill of alcohol seems to have worn off now, just another survival aid to support the last of the teenagers stuck in a dead end town. The sun is tipping over the mountains, the peaks casting chilled shadows over festivities that trudge along by rote rather than adrenaline and the follies of youth.

  
South Park is _boring_ now.

  
Lives feel like performances, dragged out too long and wilting with age.

  
His friends have lost their sparks. Kyle’s temper has fizzled out. Cartman’s sick wit is dull.

  
The depression that Stan had once hidden behind secret swigs of alcohol is no longer tucked away behind notions of childlike innocence.

  
The parties they had dreamed about, the ones filled with liquor, weed and sex, are not what they thought they’d be. Sure, the first few had been thrilling – the buzz of going against all their parents’ sound advice was more than enough of a kick but with the addition of illicit substances it had felt like a new experience altogether.

  
But what once had been new and exciting soon became habit. Kenny isn’t sure whether it is just him seeing the way South Park is stagnating - the process excruciatingly slow – so slow that if you watched it you would see nothing, but if you left it for three months and then looked again you’d see the change. Kenny tends to skip weeks at a time thanks to his penchant for dying.

  
Even death is a routine Kenny knew too well. Routine and rhyme and rote – that’s life in South Park. His friends, his enemies and the people he knew by face but not by name – they shamble around town clinging to what they think teenage life ought to be.

  
There is only one person in town who still took life in her stride. That person is Wendy Testaburger. Somehow whenever he sees her, she’s still radiant and smiling through the grey-white snowstorms. Wendy Testaburger who gets into fights and throws the best parties and whom, according to Stan, laughed and danced and glittered like freshly fallen snow.

  
Everyone is drawn to Wendy Testaburger – she’s the moon and they are all hapless moths, drawn to what seemed new and different. Wendy had left just before the stagnation began - a charity roadtrip to Mexico to help the poor and needy. Like Kenny, her absence made the change apparent to her. Travelling had made Wendy Testaburger different too – different enough that her mere presence shook up South Park upon her return.

  
Seeing hardship and suffering – lives wrecked by drug cartels and crime – had been life changing. Wendy never talks about what she saw but it clings to her like a shadow – found in the angry flash of her eye and the newly inherited patience of a saint. Kenny had never had much luck in reading people but he sees in Wendy that something integral had snapped within and reset itself in an equally functional but unrecognisable configuration. After Mexico she came back wild - years of manicured nails and carefully applied mascara left behind in the dusty streets of El Paso.

  
On the one hand, the new Wendy is far more forgiving than the old Wendy – whereas once she had been affectionately (or perhaps bitterly) known as the ‘fun police’, now Wendy is the fun. On the other, Wendy is now a force to be reckoned with, even more than before. While Kenny had always trodden carefully around her (memories of Cartman’s black eye from when he pushed the old Wendy just a little too hard were always at the forefront of his mind), now what had been tiptoes and whispers feels more similar to a cautious dance, flitting in and out of Wendy’s circle of friends, alcohol, drugs and parties. In a way, it is ironic that the event in Wendy’s life which changed her forever involved the Mexican drug trade – seeing that now she is the sole dealer for her entire town.

  
Or had been. The rural meth epidemic that rocked America hit South Park just as hard as every other quiet little rural town. At the heart of South Park’s meth trade: Wendy.  
And somehow her ruthless operation, her steep prices and aggressive selling tactics, spurred others into action. It was Tweek who blurted out that he actually already _knew_ how to concoct the stuff, Stan who created a counter group to fight Wendy’s monopoly. Cartman who went along with it all because anything against Wendy was good in his books. Kyle who was there for Stan and only Stan and watched his best friend’s back like a hawk.

  
Yet those good and pure values all fell apart eventually.

  
Kenny has to say that growing up is the worst thing that could have happened to them all. Because growing up meant needing money earnt themselves. In the midst of the recession, jobs for just out of college teenagers (all of them saddled with their parents’ debt as well as their own) were rare. But meth? Meth sold. Meth was a stable commodity within all the financial insecurity.

  
And so it began.

  
**Present Day:**  
Kenny tries not to think about the start of things (he seems to be the only one that truly remembers it all anyways) but occasionally, when things get fucked up enough (and Craig being a serial killer certainly qualifies as ‘fucked up enough’) he does find himself reminiscing.

  
That or he’s just zoning out, as he is right now.

  
“This is so fucked up dude!” That’s Stan - he’s currently arguing with Kyle over what they should do about the Craig situation.

  
“Dude, we can’t blab – we’re not exactly ‘above the law’ ourselves!” And that’s Kyle, trying to keep Stan from telling the police.

  
This argument has been long and convoluted and honestly, Kenny is tired of it. He’s just the messenger, all he wants is a job and some money. Gang warfare really doesn’t interest him. Except apparently he has to care because Stan is now saying his name – a sure sign he should be listening harder.

  
“Kenny nearly died!” Stan exclaims in frustration. _Or, y’know, actually died._ Kenny adds in his head sarcastically. “Kenny, for fuck’s sake, make Kyle do something.”

  
Looking up from his hands – worn hands, callused and scarred from deals gone wrong and good old fashioned manual labour – Kenny’s blue eyes survey the scene to get a read on what he should even say. It takes him a second to realise he still can’t read people _a la_ Sherlock Holmes, so he just goes with ‘honesty is the best policy’.

  
“I don’t fucking care dude.” He manages to come up with.

  
“How can you not care?!”

  
“Because I’m here to deliver whatever the fuck needs delivering and get paid.”

  
Cartman adds an ‘amen to that’ in the following silence. Stan giving Kenny what could be read as a filthy look if Kenny had any actual proficiency in reading people.

  
“You nearly died.”

  
“I did die.” Kenny mutters under his breath, glaring between the two of them. “Like I said guys, do what you want with the information. Sell it, tell the cops, do nothing. If you want to take down Cn’C then you can but I’m having no part in that.”

  
-

  
Clyde is watching Craig pace the concrete floor with a knot of guilt currently tying itself tighter within his stomach. Of course, Craig was under no illusion that Clyde had fed Kenny the bleach and Clyde was not nearly stupid enough to believe Craig didn’t know that. Hence why Clyde was stood there stewing in his own guilt.

  
“Why Clyde? Why would you feed our resurrecting ‘guest’ bleach?” Craig finally asks, voice soft and dangerous.

  
Clyde tugs at the sleeves of his letterman jacket nervously, avoiding Craig’s gaze the best he can. “I- uh. I don’t know?” He tries, but the words same lame even to him.

  
Frightened eyes watch Craig’s lithe shoulders rise with annoyance, rage bubbling close to the surface. It takes Craig a few deep breaths before he can continue talking in his regular unaffected manner.

  
“You don’t know. You don’t know why you would feed Kenny McCormick, the man who died and came back, bleach – knowing full well he would die.” Even in Craig’s cold tone, the sneer that neglects to sit upon his lips dances on the edge of his voice.

  
Clyde tries shamefully to force down the rising lump in his throat and will away the tears. He’s never been good at keeping his cool, but keeping his cool around an angry Craig was even more difficult still. “I-I… I just… he’s… he used to be our _friend_.” He whimpers.

  
When Craig’s fist grabs the front of his jacket Clyde is well-trained enough not to shy away. “He’s not your _friend_ Donovan. He doesn’t give two flying fucks about you. Kenny McCormick only cares about getting high and getting laid. You should know that.” Craig hisses, his mouth close to Clyde’s ear now. “I swear to god Clyde… if you don’t starting pulling your weight…”

  
Clyde nods sharply. He knows.

  
Unceremoniously Craig releases Clyde. “I don’t care if you have to pull every single favour you’re owed Donovan, start being useful.”

  
Only once Craig has left does Clyde let himself cry. Fat ugly tears roll down his cheeks. A braver man than him would confront Tucker about his less than savoury ‘habits’.

  
Clyde is not that man.

  
-

  
Kenny doesn’t like Cartman, but sometimes their interests aligned. For instance, right now Cartman is evidently uninterested in the ‘politics’ of gang warfare. Like Kenny, he is mostly there to do his job and get paid. Or rather Cartman is mostly just there for the job. Cartman is sort of unhinged. He’s paid to hurt and injure and kill. Right up his alley apparently.

  
When Cartman’s elbow digs into his side Kenny knows that Cartman is suggesting they bounce. Kenny ignores him. At the best of times hanging out with Cartman sucked. Sucked _bad_.

  
Anyways, Kyle is about to fly into a characteristic rage, Stan is trying to calm him down and Cartman is busy trying to catch his attention. Just another shitty day in Kenny’s ‘quiet mountain town’.

  
Unceremoniously, Kenny pushes himself off the wall he’s been leaning on for what feels like forever and leaves without another word. The argument is so heated that no one seems to notice. Cartman resigns himself to adding fuel to the flames via well-timed insults. The world continues to turn.

  
And so Kenny found himself wandering the streets of South Park, uncaring to whoever’s territory he tread upon. The sun is still high enough to spill golden light over the town, shadows long in the late day. Day’s like these – frosty cold yet quiet and unspoilt – are Kenny’s favourites. They’re the days where he can find somewhere quiet – some back alley or the unnamed corner – and smoke by himself, watching the sun sink below the mountains.

  
He doesn’t tend to think about anything while watches the sky make its way through the spectrum of sunset, dusky pinks to brilliant oranges to the deep blue of the twilight. Today thoughts of Craig are on his mind. He’d told himself not to think about what had happened, but dying is a messy business and his latest death is particularly effective at catching wayward thoughts. The cigarette draws his mind to Christophe, the man who Craig had paid to kill him. That made very little sense. Why the rival gang leader would hire a man to kill him, knowing full well he’d return without a scratch.

  
Some mysteries solved themselves soon enough.

  
-

  
It has been two weeks exactly since Kenny had returned from his bleach drinking escapade. Two weeks where every single day seemed to end with him dying. A sniper shot to the head, a drive by shooting, being run over, having his drink spiked, being pushed off a building at a party, a dodgy batch of ecstasy… every single thing that could cause death had been dealing Kenny a bad hand. It is taking its toll. Dying isn’t easy – it’s painful and terrifying and the blond isn’t sure he would ever get used to the way his limbs froze up and the tightness of that last breath before death came for him. Coming back from the dead is far worse – it felt like waking up from the worst hangover of all time, headache and blurry memories coupled with new stiff limbs and a persistent feeling of not being truly welcome in his new physical form. Perhaps it’s nature’s way of punishing him for breaking all her rules but dying repeatedly in such a short space of time is sapping his energy very quickly.

  
Currently his exhaustion is manifesting itself as a healthy dose of the flu – something Kenny cannot afford to self-medicate for the fear of using drugs his siblings may one day need far more than his immortal ass would. Delivering drugs while your head is filled with cotton wool and your body is simultaneously freezing and on fire is not exactly a sensible work practice, and often he can barely tell up from down as he stumbles back to Karen and all but collapses on her, trying to stay conscious for what feels like the billionth time that day. Said day ends with an addict dragging him into a dark alley and offing him before stealing his last package of the day. Kenny is real tired of dying, even if it does cure his flu.

  
It isn’t as if Kyle and Stan don’t notice the fact their pack mule is currently acting as though he hasn’t slept for over a week (which, not counting death, isn’t far from the truth) but more than they selectively ignore it in favour of surreptitiously giving him less work to do. Kenny is grateful for their insistence to say nothing – he doesn’t want to be a burden. The packages still mostly get to their recipients on time and his share of the profits isn’t docked too badly, so in the end Kenny isn’t too devastated by his recent affliction of shitty luck.

  
The exhaustion manifests itself in other ways though – through vivid dreams of Craig and torture and dark concrete rooms and coarse ropes biting their way into the skin of his wrists. Sleeping becomes somewhat of a rare occurrence. Memories of the hideous burning sensation deep inside his stomach combine with memories of Craig’s rough lips on his whenever his head hits the pillow. Drugs and alcohol don’t help to alleviate the way his brain jumps between the real and the fictional, the past and present.

  
Within the next week, Kenny finds himself barely able to manage to leave his tiny apartment, let alone take on jobs from Stan and Kyle. He gets hundreds of texts from the two of them, even one or two from Cartman, but the light of his phone is too bright for his eyes and he can’t quite remember how to use the keyboard. Somehow he’s still managing to die, even trapped within his own home. Whether it’s a faulty plug socket or simply his own negligence, death never seemed far away.

  
It’s Thursday (or perhaps it’s Friday, Kenny isn’t quite sure any longer) when he gets a knock on the door. He expects it to be Kyle or Stan, finally checking to see if he’s still alive. Therefore he makes his wobbly way over to his front door and slowly unbolts the various deadlocks. (He isn’t paranoid, not like Stan, but he sure doesn’t skimp on his home security.) His hands can barely undo the locks any longer – shaky and uncoordinated as they are. Whoever is the other side of the door is patient, as Kenny doesn’t hear them giving up and leaving. Part of him is disappointed. He just needs to be alone right now. Making small talk has never been a strong point of his. Currently, while halfway between hallucinating and collapsing, Kenny isn’t even sure he’ll be able to speak at all.

  
The final deadbolt slides across and the door opens by itself. At least, that’s how it seems to Kenny. The reality of the situation is that it’s kicked open and someone wearing a cheap Halloween mask storms into his room, knife in hand. In his infinite braindead wisdom, all Kenny thinks is what did do to piss off Lady Fortune this much over the last few weeks. A voice tells Kenny to get on his knees. It’s far too much effort to disobey, but also far too much effort to fully do as told. Hence Kenny falls to his knees far too easily but fails to say a word.

  
His assailant pauses, taking stock of the small kitchen-bedroom-bathroom that is Kenny’s apartment. There are various previous incarnations of Kenny’s dead body still left slumped over in corners and over the floor. Kenny hadn’t even bothered to try and move them between deaths. Kenny has now sat down on the floor in front of them, completely docile. It hadn’t been the plan. All they’d wanted was to create a nuisance for Kenny by arranging his various deaths over the last few weeks. Seeing the blond sat on the floor, blue eyes blankly staring up at them, barely seeing, was a truly odd sensation.

  
The apartment is filthy - half-eaten food mouldering still sat on chipped plates, empty vodka bottles left smashed on the floor and smudged lines of cocaine on the kitchen counter. The smell of rotting and damp are almost overpowering. Kenny continues to sit on the floor, haunted eyes barely blinking. At this point, it’s almost a mercy to drag him out of the shithole he’s been bound to for the last few days. The very back of Kenny’s mind is screaming for him to fight, for him to run. The rest of him is numbly accepting his fate. What does it matter if he dies yet again? He’ll only come back once more.

  
Even when his assailant-turned-kidnapper removes the mask (Kenny vaguely recognises it as Clyde), even when he’s thrown into the back of an anonymous car, even when the car stops and the door opens and Craig is there, Kenny doesn’t react to a single thing.

  
“There’s more bodies in his apartment.” He hears Clyde inform Craig.

  
“Put them with the rest.” He hears Craig order Clyde.

  
His last thought before passing out:

  
_Dude, the fuck is going on?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c;


End file.
